A Brief Respite
by barefootbean
Summary: [ FE10 Kurthnaga - Postgame ] He's carrying the world when he returns to Goldoa. In his hands, in his mind, a history untold and only known fully by several people and a goddess.


History is an erratic and complicated matter, Nasir says, but Kurth doesn't fully understand the truth of it until the book shelves collapse on him in his room.

Tumbling, tumbling, hard leather covers and fragile parchment pages rain down upon his head mercilessly, and Kurth thinks in silence, watching the pages flutter down and then collapse at his feet without a breeze to carry them away, that it's quite silly to think of these as useful when they're all just inked words with little genuine meaning at all.

Lies, the majority of them. But at face value, several years ago, he believed them to be the only answer he'd ever find.

They're stuffed back in their binders unceremoniously, placed back on their shelves even though they no longer have a place within his grounds. They're full of scrawled words of the world as he understood it a time ago in a painted room, with his sister talking amiably about life outside, cheeks flushed—and perhaps, if he keeps these words close for the time being, they'll retain the meaning they had both once shared and held in their unmarred palms when the world _didn't_ matter (though it always secretly had and he knew it).

Nothing fits, everything's out to date, but it's a past, it's a history, and Kurth can't deny the fact that it's his – and the world's. Perhaps, just maybe, he thinks – someday these words will have a meaning beyond the one he's come to label them as.

For now, their placement suits them, and it's specifically what he's come to expect.

**i - o – i**

Journeys are not his forte, but the ground underfoot provides a new tune unlike the piercing sharp quality of the orchestras in Goldoa. The stars carve trails in the earth as well as the sky, and it's a new beat Kurth has not heard the likes of before. Each step taken, and something new appears, and he's stumbling, but Nasir gives him berth, and he's reconciling, but he's only learning to learn but a prodigy at doing so.

"You'll find what's comfortable over time," Nasir says, experienced and perhaps a teacher, and the thought's welcome as they totter on the borderline of his world and descend into something new.

**i - o - i**

Kurth knows he's found a piece of history.

Serenes is cool when he steps foot on the soil for the second time, moist and thriving in evergreen and fresh earthen air, and he feels the power quake from his cramped toes all the way up his spine and through the passages of his brain when his other foot touches down; it's real, it's solid, the history cracks with each branch and pages turn with each altar and oak he passes and it's all a splendid rush.

Nasir leads the way, hair flowing over his shoulder like a curtain of water, and as it rains whispered words cleanse Kurth's mind of what he knows and shows the way to a better day.

Think, the forest cries, and he listens – and he _hears._

**i - o - i**

"Your different," Kurth says, watching history rise and fold its white wings behind him. No longer tainted, he thinks, but still burdened. Robes silver and tinged with gold – a spectacle on cloudy days, a commonality in the sunshine.

Lehran picks a berry from the bush, rolls it between his fingers thoughtfully and still appears casual as he pops it in his mouth. "I don't have the information you're looking for here. Would you accompany me back to my home?" he asks, and it should sound angelic but it's all just very tired and Nasir frowns but is silent and steadfast behind him as Kurth follows suit.

(No amount of foreboding could heave prepared him for such unexpected company, but really, who was he to believe or chastise anything after eleven years of sealing off a a festering wound that a young prince of Goldoa would come to his doorstop?)

"If you wouldn't mind, I would be appreciative. If you have any records, or simply past recollections that you'd be willing to share... I would like to hear them."

"For what purpose?" Lehran's words breathe curiosity, and Kurth responds honestly.

"It's for the world," he says, and the single glance of intrigue he receives in return makes his heart stumble—but it's not enough to dissuade him, not even close.

**i - o - i**

There is a hesitation, Kurth senses, all the way down the trail and back to the cottage with the large garden of blooming gardenias and roses that he was hoping not to see emerge true and strange. In the door, out of the rain – Lehran's home is quaint and a bit of a novelty, he assesses, but the large open windows and light colored furniture make for pleasant living quarters. Lehran bustles about in the kitchen –_ would you care for some tea?_ - and it sounds and feels like nature breathing down his spine.

Nasir occupies himself by the door, crossed arms and sharp ocean eyes, and Kurth stands by the windows, and thinks some more, and wills his mind to engrave these feelings that flit across the bubbling surface of his mind.

They dabble here and wither there and they feel just like pressure points tapping at his skull.

But they don't hurt.

The truth is a long time coming – and long overdue. A brief respite is all that was ever needed, but it's taken much longer to come to terms with than he would have liked.

**i - o – i**

There are books scattered on the table and spilled tea on the floors from stories exchanged that still tend to ache, but Lehran – _Sephiran_ – doesn't look concerned. Frustration is evident though, and Kurth wonders if it's not something more as he flutters about like a rained on wren.

"How long has it's been since you've seen the Apostle last?" Kurth asks, and the answer he receives is not what he expects to hear.

_Eleven years. I send letters, but that's the extent of our socialites. My proprieties have seen fit to dissuade me from pursuing our friendship... and I trust that's what holds her back, as well..._

Nasir is idle, like a statue when they leave, but his lips move, and words flow as history conciliates with the weight of knowledge both dragons have gained drags across their mind like the heavy sky above – and he acquiesces with a final shrewd look as his feet churn soil and rain-soaked words and Kurth is at last out of hearing range.

"You could have done more," Nasir whispers, "she would listen to you now, you know. She cares," and Lehran's hands are preoccupied with empty tea cups as he turns and leaves, wings tight against the flat of his back, as if his will were strong enough, he could simply wish them away back to the dark and think no longer of past conceptions of his undoing. Of course, whether Nasir knows the truth or not, confrontations have never been his cup of tea.

**i - o – i**

Sienne is strange, with its towering ramparts and sky-touching cathedrals – but it's not unfamiliar, not in the least – and there is grace to be found in the archways and flower gardens with their ornaments stone gray and their walkways crafted with careful hands and fountains dressed in gold.

Pretty, is the word that comes to mind, but Apostle Misaha's assassination still rings even in the empty hallways and not long forgotten laguz slave encampments. There is horror to be found if Kurth dared to look, but history has a funny quirk of belonging to the past, and lingering on such matters is uncouth of someone living and bound to the present.

People murmur and stare, and Kurth catches site of vendors and young people filling the streets with arms full of fall harvests, carts entering the market with goods his nose tells him are paper from Daein's lands further north, and children holding on to mother's skirts with wide eyes; he passes by and offers friendly smiles that garner more than a few delighted squeals.

Only their garments give way to their foreignness, and Nasir's naturally long strides manage to guide them both quickly to a palace of grandeur not to be underestimated. Guards catch them at the door, they're told to state their names and fleeting terrified glances are shared as one stumbles off to the audience chambers, and Kurth's eyes are of an innocent curiosity as he explores the tapestries upon the walls and pays no heed to the bewildered conversations that transpire around the corner.

Not to be insulted, he thinks, and greets this new Apostle Sanaki brightly as she flits about the room in dark blurs, dark hair, dark masses in his vision, and they share a story and another nostalgic cup of tea not unlike the taste of Serenes.

**i - o - i**

She's womanly, her stature tall and thin, long-limbed and even longer purple locks. Lips painted red, cheek bones sparkling, dress matching in bright shades that can only be described as _exotic_ (if not all together simply odd) - and she looks like a stranger, too, skin flushed ashen in the shade, too pale in the light, this beorc he had met not too long ago.

Apostles age so quickly, he thinks, and his tea is a little worse for wear.

"State your proposition _after_ we talk for a little while," she says, a smile teasing her lips, and Kurth can't help but return the gesture even if it's a weak one.

Her eyes remind him of her sister. But she's her own special person, and her derisiveness says it all with each exaggerated hand gesture she makes. He wonders, a bit solemnly, if she's anything like her ancestors, and if they were anything like her, and if her people reflect her will, or not quite.

In the archives, she helps him uncover answers, but in the books, together they find little traces of reality.

Nasir's frowning, eyes a darker shade of cobalt in the thralls of searching, eyebrows drawn together in great thought, and the pressure seems to lessen when she takes a seat and returns the book with a quiet breath.

"More lies," she says, sighing, rubbing her temple, and for a moment Kurth's forgotten that she wants to share the unspoken history, too.

**i - o - i**

Crimea and Daein both offer beauty, and delight, but even less than what he'd hoped.

Micaiah's hands are warm and her hug soft when he returns it – takes note of her age – and allows her to show him about the castle, sit him down for an hour or two to talk and talk and talk and gesture (much like her sister) about Nevassa's recovery in a string of sentences he cannot keep up with with bright golden eyes (also familiar) and a smile that he manages to illicit from every encounter of a friendly face.

When she speaks, her words are full of relief and promising futures, and when Kurth goes to the Crimean Queen her answers and reports are more or less the same.

No histories to be found in the archives of a real and uncompromisable truth, only modern horrors he knows full well about by now.

"I'm sorry I can't be of more help to you, Prince," Elincia says, and Kurth smiles and says honestly _that it's okay._

"It's to be expected," he murmurs afterward in thought, and the leap from Crimea to Gallia and back home again is a thoughtful period in time. Nasir is quiet for the majority of the trip, but then again, so is he, and then again, so is the rest of the world.

Lips locked tight about a history never shared—perhaps secrets should keep their name.

**i - o - i**

He's carrying the world when he returns to Goldoa. In his hands, in his mind, a history untold and only known by several people and a goddess.

Nasir looks complacent, bordering on what he can only guess is impatience, and Kurth dismisses him from duty with a smile. Sleep, he says, you've done enough, and plans to retire shortly himself—even though he knows he's gone to see Ena and won't sleep until they've both spoken about everything and anything—and the frayed edges of the everything in between.

The evening's cool, the sunset an array of Lehran's small gardens and bright blooming succulents in Begnion's courtyards, and Kurth stands on careful toes and removes a false past from the shelves of his father's room. The parchment pages smell of ink, and he blinks tiredly at every crack as he gently turns a page and encounters walls of words in return. Sleep calls for obedience, and knowledge calls for resolve, but in the end, it's the latter that calls out the most to his weary wandering mind.

There is nothing to tumble or fall upon him now, nothing to make him wince as history's weight topples and flips over his conscience demanding obedience as he draws the world unwillingly from its cradle for a second time that year. Kurth admittedly doesn't understand a prosperity built upon a false constitution, but there is a fundamental truth to a bliss that results from a glorified ignorance. Consequences will always result, but there are benefits to be reaped as well. But when they have been utilized too long, the edges of such a belief begin to fray, and if Kurth didn't know better, hands sliding along the undercover of the world as _he knew it_—who was he to deem a lie a courtesy or not when it's all he's ever known?

He thinks of Lehran's quiet disposition, of Sanaki's perpetual royal grace, and sees futures not his for the taking. There's not much he can offer, little he can give when the people begin to wonder, to question, but maybe the honorable gift of silence will suffice for a little while longer, maybe the bliss will ease the step back into reality and soften the landing.

Perhaps... it's an act of mercy, or a will to keep his father's stubbornness around for a while longer, but the book in Kurth's grasp slides into place in its empty crevasse, along permanently fixed shelves with little sound to wake the sleeping world – and, unsurprisingly, _it fits._


End file.
